


Taking The Lead

by kuonji



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Established Relationship, M/M, POV Second Person, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-06
Updated: 2012-08-06
Packaged: 2017-11-11 14:33:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/479540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuonji/pseuds/kuonji
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Once you've bled with a guy and taken down mob cartels with him, it's frankly ridiculous to help him move his couch and think you've done anything special.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taking The Lead

**Author's Note:**

> Alternative Links:  
> <http://starskyhutch911.livejournal.com/406195.html>

There're some things you don't think about before you hook up with another man.

Like gifts, for example. Maybe you used to give your girlfriends flowers or chocolates or charm bracelets. Not that he doesn't like plants and jewelry -- but it's really not the same. You can't swing by the market on the way to his house and grab a dozen roses. Nah, now you have to get a potted fichus or something. You have to pay attention to what climate the plant likes, and what he already has, and what won't take too much time ('cause knowing your working hours, it'd be dead in a month if it needed too much babying, and then there'd be guilt and frustration all around).

And you can't take him to some gift shop and say, "Pick somethin' you like, honey." That would go over like a lead balloon. With rocks in the basket. You'd be lucky to get out of there with just the Glare Of Death. No, you hafta plan out this little speech. "Baby," you say, "I know you don't like that conspicuous consumption business" -- and doesn't that sound like a case of pneumonia, or what? -- "but you know how I feel about you, and I really really wanta give you something special for your birthday this year." And it helps if you pick out something ahead of time. Something _meaningful_. And not too expensive. Because you're not a 'sugar daddy' or a 'boyfriend'. You're his _partner_.

Jesus.

It's harder to show him how you love him, too. You can't exactly open jars for him or move his furniture or clean his gutters. Not that he has gutters, of course. (Unless we're talking about metaphorically, in which case you're happy to clean his gutters _any_ time, and he's happy to let you.) Anyway, _un_ metaphorically speaking, he hasn't got any gutters, so what you actually mean, uh, metaphorically, is doing housework for him -- which you don't need to. Because, again, he ain't your girlfriend. And once you've bled with a guy and taken down mob cartels with him, it's frankly ridiculous to help him move his couch and think you've done anything special.

The sex is good, of course. The sex is _fantastic_. But there's nothing quite like holding hands or pecking your girl on the cheek in public or opening doors for her and helping her outta the car. There's something primal and protective about that. And you just can't do that with a guy. Not with _your_ guy anyway. And it's no use tellin' him you just want to show him how much you love him. Nope. All that'll do is get you a lecture about gender roles and blah blah blah (you always stop listening after the first thirty seconds, so you never do catch how it ends).

You never remind him that he likes to guide you through doors and order food for you, 'cause you kinda like that, actually, and you know if you pointed it out he might stop doin' it just out of 'spite and orneriness', as your grandma used to say.

So, you just have to settle for making him laugh and complimenting him a lot. And touching him every chance you get, which fortunately is not too weird. (Everyone's used to it already; it'd probably be weirder if you stopped.) And you take extra care to choose movies you both can watch and restaurants you both can enjoy and let him pick up the tab half the time. In other words, just like before.

Except that instead of going on double dates like before, now you go on _date_ dates.

Which means a pricey restaurant sometimes, just the two of you. (Combed hair and cologne and all that jazz.) Camping or fishing at other times. (Long as there's nothing bigger than a woodchuck around, you've found that the great outdoors have grown on you.) Concerts and museums. (Artsy stuff, you like okay, but what you really love is seeing him get all pompous and highbrow -- and then later seeing him smile so soft, all lost in wonder, when he thinks you're not looking.) And it means that you take him dancing.

And that's where the other problem comes in.

Who ever thinks when he decides to give his heart and soul to another guy, Gee, I wonder how we're goin' to go dancing?

Yeah. You had no idea, did you?

The disco stuff is easy. Grab some drinks, get out there with a group of people, and nobody cares who's next to you or across from you or whatever. It's certainly not just you who likes to see your lover shimmy his tush under the strobe lights, after all. Hell, if you find one of those 'special' bars, it can even be just the two of you up close and personal. You can show him your stuff and he can show you his, and it's all fun and sweaty and you come home high with your blood rushing and generally there's some more mamboin' of the horizontal variety to finish off the evening. Which is all perfectly great.

But _real_ dancing. Where you're in your nice pants and shoes that hurt your feet, and you escort your girl to the gleaming wood paneled dance floor, and you whirl her 'round like she's the most special porcelain flower, just showin' her off to all the poor slobs who ain't got her because for inexplicable reasons, she's with you, just a ring and a bullet away from till-death-do-us-part... How do you do _that_ with a guy?

The simplest answer is, you don't. Not when you're a cop, and he's a cop, and you live in 1978, Bay City.

And you _definitely_ don't do it when you've driven five and a half hours to get to a place with gorgeous chandeliers, a live quartet, and a select clientele -- and your partner winds up bitching about his tie, and whose turn it is to lead, and then stomps all over your feet, throws a hissyfit, and _leaves_ you alone on the dance floor like you're some dumbass who tried to cop a feel during the receiving turn.

And when everyone's giving you curious looks and snickering, maybe you don't even give a shit.

Maybe you throw up your hands and yell something uncomplimentary and storm outta there, leavin' everybody guessing. You figure, if an f-in' fruit can't make a scene in public, who can? Somehow, you find yourself on a balcony overlooking a tiny but well-kept garden, wondering what in hell you're doing here, hundreds of miles from home and all alone. And if you'd been in a particularly nasty state of mind, you might've grabbed a scotch on the way out.

You start thinking about how much easier it used to be before, when you and he were partners but not yet _partners_. How you were best friends through the hard times, and brothers through the hardest times. And now everything can fall apart over a dumb tie and a box step. And even though you know you can never go back to plain water after being drunk on ambrosia for six months, you can't help but indulge for just a minute and fantasize about driving off, leaving your partner stranded and totally pissed, maybe with a single, unsigned note at the concierge: "Have a nice life, Asshole!"

But then... But then maybe...

He's behind you, and he clears his throat, and when you don't turn around, he comes up beside you and says, real quiet and scared, "Do you mind if I join you?"

And you almost never hear him that way. That tone of voice always makes you think of a needle and a small room and panic and pain. It surprises you enough that even though you wanted to knock his block off two seconds ago, you turn to look at him and say, "Sure."

And once you're looking at him, you can't forget how goddamn handsome and kind and strong he is. And how vulnerable. He's standing all straight and tall like he's facing a firing range, and when he says, "I-- I-- I--", your heart melts all over your cummerbund.

"Slow down, Blintz," you tease, maybe with just a _little_ meanness, since he was, after all, a jerk to you. But you smile, and he covers his mouth with one fist and his shoulders relax a bit.

"I'm sorry," he says, real deliberate, which is the only way he can get a word out when he's got an attack of the stammers like he does now. He scowls and turns away. Apologizing is never easy for him. "You, you know how I get when I'm, when I'm..." He swears and scratches one hand through his hair. "I was nervous, okay?" he blurts. "I felt like everybody was staring at us. And _you_ were staring at me. You looked like you were expecting me to fly or something. And I just-- I forgot-- I couldn't remember a single step."

He slams a hand against the top of the stone banister, and you wince for him.

"It's stuffy in there," he added testily. "Their air conditioning must be broken."

"Yeah," you snort. " _That's_ what's broken, sure." You're feeling somewhat mollified but not enough to take his crap.

You see him flinch, and he doesn't answer the challenge. Instead, he stares out over the garden. You wait for him. You're still not sure that you forgive him, but you know that if you wait, he'll convince you to.

"It's so beautiful here. How come I never do anything this nice for you?"

You stare at him, completely surprised and a little angry. "What are you talking about?"

He leans his elbows on the banister and talks to empty air. "Let's face it. I'm terrible to you. How do you put up with me?"

You roll your eyes. Your tough, cool super-cop is showing his dumb blond side. "I didn't do this for you, you moron. Who likes dancing more, me or you? Who likes road trips? Who likes room service and all the luxuries of the indoors?" You get beside him and bump his shoulder. "'Sides. Who's paying for half of this trip?"

He shrugs. "I don't hate this. I'm not giving up anything for you."

"Since when do I hate anything we do together?"

"You go camping with me. Hiking. I know that's not your thing."

"Camping's not so bad. I'm startin' to like it." You sigh, because you're about to give up a huge advantage. "I only whine so much because then you think you owe me."

You sense him looking at you sharply. You don't return his gaze. That'd be suicide for sure.

"Wait a minute. You mean you've been _lying_ to me all this time?"

"Not all the time!" you protest. The truth is important. " _Especially_ not the time it rained all weekend," you remind him.

He still looks suspicious, but at least he's not all folded up and guilt-ridden anymore. You can't stand it when he's like that.

You put down your glass. It's not all the way empty, and that's fine. "You wanta go back in there and dance?" you ask.

Suddenly, he's all nervous again. "D-Do you mind if we, uh, practice a bit? Just out here?"

You reach out and you run your hand along the side of his face. You love doing that. It's warm and rough. "Okay. You want to lead?"

"No. No, you-- You're better at it." He puts his right hand in your left, and his left hand on your shoulder.

The music is faint, but you can both hear it well enough to sway to the rhythm.

  
END. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this story, you might try these:    
>      [Rain On His Lashes](http://community.livejournal.com/starskyhutch911/352545.html) (Starsky & Hutch), by kuonji    
>      [Not What You Think](http://community.livejournal.com/starskyhutch911/302989.html) (Starsky & Hutch), by kuonji    
>      [First Times](http://%20http://kuonji14.livejournal.com/684.html) (Stargate Atlantis), by kuonji  
>      [Transparent](http://meandthee.shahrazad.net/display.php?storyid=1662) (Starsky & Hutch), by Jat Sapphire  
>      [Art](http://community.livejournal.com/starskyhutch911/388607.html) (Starsky & Hutch), by Allie  
>      [Falling Water](http://1x2x1.org/fiction/lone_wolf/falling_water.htm) (Gundam Wing), by LoneWolf


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